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Hello, Friends.

I expected to be writing well before this. I thought getting started would be enough to muster some momentum, but it wasn’t. With me, it never is. So here I am, well over a month later and stuck in a holding pattern.

And I guess that’s why it’s called a pattern, right? Tracing the seams around our brains day after day. The same seams that got us here, the same seams that would lead us forward – if we’d only let them. But we keep coming back. Stitching the same lines, padding the same truths, no more prepared than the last time around. At least, that’s how it is for me.

I’ve been depressed, discouraged, tired, uninspired, and I don’t know why – not really. Or maybe I know and the insight I’ve gained just gets tossed over my shoulder and carried on my back. All I know is that it’s heavy – and it gets heavier every day. The things I learn, the treasures I’ve found, only add to the weight of the judgement, the pressure, the fear of moving forward. The fear of never really moving at all. And I carry it with me.

And these Communities of Family, Friends, Pets – offer daily respite from the elements. A place to share, to smile, to support each other. A safe place. But I have a bone to pick even here, among animal lovers who really are the best kind of people. Even here, where we’re sewing similar stories and covering common ground.

I haven’t seen it much on Bean’s Talks, but the threads are there. I’m sure you’ve seen them too. The scripted scorn that shows up every time some brave soul has the courage to speak up and say I don’t know, I’m unsure, what would you do? And you, and you? The truth is, we’re reluctant to show our softer selves, to ask advice, or even offer it. And some of us shelter better than others.

I’m not a professional. Not a breeder, or a trainer, or a veterinarian. I don’t even parent HUMAN children (though I’ve heard it’s really hard). Parenting of any kind must be hard. Caregiving is hard. Asking for help is hard. Being a person is hard. Isn’t it easier with a splash of compassion?

And yet, I find myself looking back on Bean’s life and forward into Sproutie’s. I second-guess every stitch. Tracing and retracing the pattern that keeps me stuck. And I wonder what I could have done differently, what I should be doing differently, what it’s already too late to start now. I think of all the things I hadn’t prepared for, and all the things I’m not prepared for now. I catch myself scanning pictures for overgrown nails and cropping their feet from the frames. What would you think?

But we’re not perfect, Friends. That’s why we need each other. They say it takes a Village to raise a child. What do we have here? A dog park, or a competition? And we forget the things that human beings consistently endure. The comparison, the criticism, the shaming. We forget how hard it is to show ourselves when everyone is looking. We hide behind filters, we can’t forgive our flaws. We stand on a virtual platform and size each other up. We’re only here for the show. We don’t know, what we don’t know. Or we forget. We forget how to be human.

And even social standards aren’t high enough. Even the best in show go home to themselves, and many our own worst critics. So many dos, so many don’ts. So many wills, so many won’ts. What will you feed? What will they wear? Do they walk long enough, do they get enough air? Are they crate trained, socialized, obedient, and healthy? Would we do it any differently if we were all wealthy?

You get the idea. We’re knotted together by nature. We love our children, our dogs, our families, our friends, but we’re fraying. And these threads of discord aren’t going anywhere. We can’t agree on everything, we’re not meant to. But we can be softer, smooth our ends. We can be kind to each other, and kind to ourselves. We can call upon our strength when we weave it all together, fold more love into our hearts, and become a HUMAN tether.

This time last year, I sat in a waiting room at the Emergency Veterinary Clinic. I was waiting for answers, and test results, and words of encouragement. Waiting for someone to tell me what to do, how to feel, when it was time to say goodbye. Waiting for certainty and confidence that never came. I learned that asking for help in letting go is essentially the same as holding on. You’re not looking for a clean break, or a push forward. You’re not looking for courage or strength. You’re waiting for that one, tiny, viable truth to breathe life into your world, as you know it. You’re waiting for a sign that shows you nothing’s changed. That nothing HAS to change. You’re waiting for a miracle.

And sometimes, it seems as if I’ve spent my life waiting for these tiny miracles. Events, and people, and things to guide me – to make my decisions FOR me. To tell me who I am, and who I’m supposed to be. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding choices, conflict, pain. Most of these years, waiting for life to happen TO me. And that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Avoidance isn’t a pathway, and we can’t stumble on our autonomy by standing still. By waiting. My life had become a waiting room.

For years, I’d been dreading these inevitably difficult decisions – to fight or let go – for our sweet girl to keep fighting or let go. Because she would’ve kept fighting. We asked her to keep fighting. But when the call came later, to tell us she was struggling, her little lungs couldn’t find the air, her heart was failing, we made the choice to break our own and let her go. No more waiting.

When we said goodbye, no one came to tell me how to carry this grief, or how to negate it. No one told me how to set it down and move on. But I had all of you, and you helped me lift it. You made it lighter somehow. All of you, who joined the Facebook page I created to keep her alive in my head, and in my heart. You continued to speak to me, and you spoke to her, and you made it possible for me to see her face and hear her voice. I feel her with me every day. And I never asked for your support. I never had to wait for that. You just showed up – as family. You became our family.

And then came the promise of a little Sprout, a salve to soothe our wounded souls, a receptacle for the vast reserves of love still weighing on my heart. I asked for help to deploy it, and I didn’t have to wait. You came together and you found her. You gifted and brought her to me, with the resolve to help me start over again.

We’ve had Sproutie since June, and I’ve hesitated to give her a voice. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll lose Bean’s, or worried I won’t hear her anymore. But I started this blog to chronicle our new beginning, to continue sharing our lives with you. I started, and then I waited. There were things I wanted to share every day, for all these months, but I went back to waiting. I sat down to write, I waited again. I posted on Facebook and waited some more. And I know all it takes is one step in the right direction, one small step forward, but I’ve never been good at getting started.

And here we are, an entire year from the day we lost Bean, and many months from the day we welcomed our Sprout. And I have to be finished with waiting. If Sproutie’s taught me anything so far, it’s the power of perseverance. Waiting is NOT an option. And as for her own voice – I guess she can “HAS” it. We hope you’ll continue on our journey while we grow, and may this blog not be an ending, but the start of a beautiful beginning.